


Don’t We Touch Each Other Just to Prove We are Still Here?

by raineraine



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst and Smut, Bisexuality, Bottom Steve Rogers, Canon Divergence, Comfort, Confessions, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drunken Confessions, Finding solace, First Time Topping, Gay Sex, Light Angst, Light War Discussion, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: The Winter Soldier Compliant, Oral Sex, Rare Pairings, Smut, Veterans, War Recovery, top Frank Castle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 15:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19379173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raineraine/pseuds/raineraine
Summary: Not every vet fits with the group therapy crowd. What happens when two not-quite-honest ones are thrown together? And what happens when they find out the truth?





	Don’t We Touch Each Other Just to Prove We are Still Here?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emmatheslayer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmatheslayer/gifts).



> Written as part of the CapRBB 2019, based on this art by Emmatheslayer. Beta'd by the ever-wonderful h34rt1lly.
> 
> This ship is a rarepair, so if you’re stopping by, I hope I’ve done them justice! 
> 
> Some notes on timelines/plot points that I cherrypicked from the canon-  
> Frank didn’t sleep with Beth (the bartender) in Season 2 of The Punisher.  
> Bucky is Wakanda/presumably not returning/whatever take you’d like. (I love Bucky dearly but in order for this to work, he couldn’t be in the fic.)  
> The events of Punisher Season 1 & 2 occurred otherwise.  
> The events of Infinity War and Endgame did not occur.  
> The Avengers reside at the new facility in upstate New York. 
> 
> The title comes from “On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous” by Ocean Vuong.

  

 

A knock on his door made Sam Wilson look up from his paperwork. Leaning against the doorframe was a familiar face, one he’d seen around the VA in the past year since he’d settled back into work. Curtis Hoyle. 

 

“Hey there, Curtis,” Sam gestured for him to come in. “This a work thing or a social call?”

 

Curtis stepped into the office, taking care to shut the door behind him, and gave Sam a half-smile. “A bit of both, maybe? Got a personal favor to ask.”

 

Sam arched an eyebrow and dropped his pen on top of the pile of papers, eyes trained on Curtis as he sat down across from him. “That right? What’s work got to do with a personal favor?”

 

“I have someone— a friend— who could use some help adjusting.” Curtis put his elbows on the edge of the desk and leaned in close as he lowered his voice. “But he isn’t exactly the kind of guy I can just show up to group with, if you catch my drift.”

 

Sam blew out a long breath. “You know I have a whole band of people I can’t exactly ‘show up to work with,’ right?” He crossed his arms across his chest. “Tell me about your friend, Curtis.”

 

“You know you can call me Curt. My friends do.” Curtis fiddled with the jar of pens on the edge of Sam’s desk. “But you don’t strike me as the type that is going to fall for my biding time tactics, so alright, Sam. I’ll tell you about my friend.” He cleared his throat before meeting Sam’s curious gaze. “His name is Frank. And he’s not exactly what you would call a people person.”

  
  


It wasn’t easy to convince Sam that helping Frank was a good idea. Hell, Curt still wasn’t convinced that Sam believed the whole thing was a “good” idea at all. What had been the tipping point was giving Sam the opportunity to test out his buddy system— that hadn’t been what he called it, but close enough. The difference between Curt and Sam’s approach to therapy was like night and day. Sam was the bonafide, degree-holding kind of therapist who knew the DSM-V backward. Curt knew just enough about the way it all went down in the field, and the way life seared with too-bright light and too-dull greys, to be the anchor that held these guys steady while they sorted their own heads out. Every good program needed a bit of both. The vets at their VA were lucky, if there were ever such a thing. 

 

And then there was Frank. 

 

Frank checked all the boxes of what a good fit for therapy looked like: Combat vet, traumatic loss, PTSD, on and on. But where others stopped living in a warzone, Frank never left it. Frank became something else— at least, that’s what Curtis told himself at first. Maybe the truth was more complicated than that. Maybe Frank just embraced who he had always been, only now, he didn’t have anything holding him back. Madani had given him that much when she wiped “Frank Castle” off the map. Now there was only… Pete. Pete Castiglione. 

 

“You want to set Frank up with  _ Captain America _ ?” Curt choked on his coffee. “Wilson, have you lost your damn mind?!”

 

Sam held up both hands, palms out. “Easy there, Curt, hear me out. I want to try pairing up your friend…  _ Pete _ … with my friend, Steve. Just a couple of guys who would feel restless in group therapy, but aren't thriving in traditional methods.” Picking up his own cup of coffee, Sam tipped it toward Curtis as he spoke again, “And lay off the Cap shit around Steve. He hates that.” 

 

Curt considered the edge to Sam's voice when he mentioned Captain America. This was another difference between Steve and Frank, one that Curtis wasn't convinced that they would make it through long enough to  _ speak  _ to each other, let alone  _ help  _ one another unpack a damn thing. Frank didn't run from being the Punisher. It was a part of him that had always been just under the surface-- when Curt thought back to their time in the service, he could see glimpses of the Punisher wearing Frank's skin, even then. But the way Sam bristled, Curtis got the impression in one: Steve Rogers was not just Captain America. 

 

“So what are you gonna tell Steve about my friend Pete?” Curt wondered aloud. 

 

Sam picked up his phone with a grin. “You let me worry about that, Curt,” he hummed as his thumbs tapped the screen. 

  
  


Steve caught sight of his reflection in the window of a storefront he walked past and frowned, pulling the ball cap down lower and nudging his sunglasses higher. Sam might have been convinced that this was all it took to look inconspicuous in New York City, but Steve felt like tossing it all in the nearest dumpster. 

 

Slipping his hand into the interior pocket of his jacket, he checked the address Sam had sent him once again.  _ Should be along this street. At least the neighborhood is quiet _ , he thought, quickening his step as he passed brownstones nestled between antique shops. Boerum Hill didn’t feel quite like the Brooklyn he remembered, but if Steve had learned anything since waking up from the ice, it was that nothing about this world was as he remembered it— not even Brooklyn. 

 

The coffee shop wasn’t anything to write home about, in this era of high turnover rates and a seemingly endless supply of Big New Ideas, but Steve didn’t mind that. The place was clean and well-kept, even if the furniture looked a little worn in. Nat had taught him that was intentional nowadays, but it still didn’t make much sense.  _ Hipster appeal. Boho-chic and all that,  _ she’d explained, chuckling at his confusion. She was built of different stuff, trained to adapt where Steve had always been cajoled to stand out. 

 

“What can I get for you?” the lone barista behind the counter asked him, slinging a rag over her shoulder. “Doppio on ice is our special for the day.” 

 

Steve’s eyes were still scanning the menu, intimidating in both length and phrasing no matter where he went these days, and gave her a shrug. “I think I still need a few minutes.” He glanced around the empty shop, clearing his throat to add, “I’m meeting someone. Seems polite to wa—”

 

The door opened behind him, and the rest of the word died in Steve’s throat as he whirled to get a glimpse of whoever had just come through it. His mind drifted back to the text Sam had sent him about the vet he was meeting for this buddy program:  **According to Curt, look for a tall dude. Probably wearing ‘something black and a sullen expression.’ That’s a direct quote.**

 

The vague description certainly fit the profile of the man-in-black who had just ghosted through the door. He stood nearly eye-to-eye with Steve in height, was clad in a black jacket and jeans, and had a hard edge to his gaze when Steve raised his hand in greeting. “Hey there. You Pete?”

 

The man nodded, tucking a hand into his pocket. “You Steven?”

 

Steve tried to mask the frown that tugged at his mouth, forgetting entirely that he was supposed to be incognito on this venture. He wasn’t Steve Rogers today. Instead he was Steven Grant, army veteran. “You got it.” Steve glanced back at the menu, still undecided about what to order. “Been here before?”

 

“Nah. Curt’s recommendation.” Pete’s eyes skimmed the menu with disinterest. “Not much for the fancy shit, y’know? Black coffee is black coffee.” He pulled a folded bill from one of the numerous pockets on his jacket. “What are you drinkin’? I’ve got it.”

 

Steve couldn’t hide the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Even if nothing else about this meeting went well, at least he and Pete could agree on something. “Sounds like we’re on the same page. I’ll take one of whatever you’re having.”

 

The barista’s expression had turned sour over the course of their conversation. Before Pete could say anything, she was punching something into the register. “Two large coffees, black. Wouldn’t want to get too damn fancy on you gentlemen.” Narrowing her eyes, she flipped two cups off the top of the stack and filled them from the nearest drip carafe. “That’ll be five even.”

 

Steve walked nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with Pete to the counter, watching the other man drop the ten dollar bill he’d been holding onto the countertop before he snapped a lid onto one of the steaming cups. 

 

“Keep the change. Maybe it’ll improve your customer service,” Pete said in a honeyed tone as he tipped the cup at the barista. “Thanks for the coffee.” He cast another glance around the otherwise-empty cafe before raising an eyebrow at Steve. “What’d ya say we walk-and-talk? Have a feeling my presence isn’t appreciated here.”

 

Picking up the remaining cup of coffee, Steve led the way out the door, feeling the barista’s glare through the back of his coat with every step. “Never was a fan of coffee shops,” he muttered as the door swung shut behind them. Remembering his manners, Steve offered his free hand to Pete. “Nice to meet you, Pete. Appreciate the coffee.”

 

Pete considered Steve’s hand for a long moment before giving it a firm shake. “Not a problem.” He gestured, first north then south, with the hand that still cradled his cup of coffee. “Which way?”

 

Pulling a quarter from his pocket, Steve gave him a wry smile. “Heads we go north, tails we go south.” He flicked it high into the air, catching it in his outturned hand and inspecting the landing. “Tails—south it is.”

 

“Not a fan of the Brooklyn Bridge?” Pete joked as they set off southward. 

 

“Born and raised in Brooklyn. Seen my fair share of the bridge,” Steve countered. “Maybe today we’re just getting a scenic view of the Channel.”

 

Shielding his eyes from the sun, Pete tried to read Steve’s expression. “You know that’s gotta be a three mile walk from here, at least.”

 

“Got somewhere else to be?” Steve queried as they fell in step with each other. The tension in Pete’s shoulders and the long beat of silence that hung after made Steve slip off his sunglasses, wanting to let his eyes convey his sincerity. “I’m already screwing this up, aren’t I?

 

Pete looked at the ground, not willing to meet the other man's eyes as he spoke gruffly, “S'not that.  Just that I don't have anything to get back to.” He fisted his hands and shoved them in his jacket pocket. “I did, once. A wife and two kids. They died a while back.”

 

Steve fell into a stunned silence as they kept walking, following the stretch of pavement as their surroundings morphed from residential buildings and cozy neighborhood shops to a belching industrial district.  Something about the change felt more like the New York Steve remembered. His New York City, back then, had been shaped more like this— grimy and downtrodden shapes, not high rises and skyscrapers. 

 

“Now you tell me, Steven,” Pete offered, “if I'm the one really screwing shit up already.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Talking about your baggage right out of the gate has gotta be against some sort of guidelines. Oughta ask Curt about that one.”

 

Steve abruptly stopped walking. He jerked his chin at Pete, eyes burning with the unspoken thoughts he was trying to shove down. "If we're going to do this thing, we're not going to play by Sam and Curt's rules." Steve leveled his gaze with Pete's eyes, their nearly-matched height more obvious now than it had been before. "Your family isn't baggage. You want to talk about them, I'm here to listen. Whatever past you have? Maybe that's the baggage you need to unpack. But we all have it."

 

"That right?" Pete shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his coat and rocked back on his heels. "Baggage for baggage, then. I told you why I'm not in a rush to go home. Why are you avoiding Brooklyn?" Before the other man could get a word out, Pete raised an eyebrow. "Not a fuckin' chump, Grant. Can read discomfort when I see it."

 

There it was again— a lie, wrapped around pieces of the truth, as Steve's alias fell from Pete's lips.  _ That's not gonna stick _ , Steve sighed to himself,  _ if we ever make it through this afternoon _ . He rolled his shoulders before casting a backwards glance toward the no-longer-visible bridge. "Baggage for baggage," Steve repeated quietly. "My ma died in Brooklyn. Someone very important to me left Brooklyn with a promise to come back, and instead, I'm the one who made it out." He kicked at a rock on the sidewalk absently. "It isn't about Brooklyn. Not entirely. More like what's missing from it."

 

Pete merely nodded. “Served with one of my best friends. It changed him and… Well, he ain’t around anymore.” Shifting his gaze away, he seemed to be searching for a landmark. “Why the fuck are we going on a walk to the Channel anyway?”

 

Steve couldn’t hold back his laughter at the abrupt change of subject. “Honestly? I have no idea.” Spreading his arms out as invitation, he gazed around at the industrial warehouses that surrounded them. “I’m open to alternative suggestions, but I feel the need to point out that we’re not exactly in the entertainment district.”

 

“Entertainment district?” Pete let out a snort of amusement. “You sound like some sort of grandpa.” 

 

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” Steve admitted. 

 

“Think there’s a bar between here and that joke of a coffee shop?” Pete wondered aloud.

 

That was how Steve Rogers ended up in a dimly lit bar with a man he’d just met, pretending that the four beers he’d downed had any effect on him. Another tick in the  _ this is never going to work  _ column— the lies stacked upon lies were liable to bury him alive if he didn’t come clean to Pete about who he was. Although the sunglasses had come off, tucked alongside his phone in the interior pocket of his leather jacket, Steve had kept the ball cap pulled low over his brow bone on the off-chance that someone recognized him. Nat would have been proud of the display.  _ Guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. _

 

To her credit, the bartender hadn’t questioned their cash-only payment. It probably helped that Pete was a generous tipper with a charming smile, a 180-degree personality shift from the coffee shop that was still puzzling Steve. It wasn’t as simple as a change of behavior based on the environment. Something about the way Pete relaxed in the enclosed space, nestled in the furthest corner with a direct line-of-sight on the door, was like brushstrokes in a painting that Steve couldn’t make out yet. 

 

“Thought we were unpacking our baggage,” Steve noted as he picked up his glass, “not drowning it out.”

 

Pete leaned forward, elbows nearly knocking his beer over as he did, and fluttered his eyelashes dramatically at Steve. “You think I’m going to spill all my secrets on the first date, Steven?” Noting the way the other man balked, Pete let out a roar of laughter. “Ah, Grant, lighten up!”

 

Regaining his composure at the sound of Pete’s laughter, Steve crossed his arms over his chest and feigned rejection. “And here I thought you were going to ask me to go steady, Castiglione.” 

 

“Gotta buy me dinner first,” Pete teased in a voice that was drenched in alcohol and sarcasm. 

 

Steve held up the menu. “I’ll buy you whatever you want if it’ll help you sober up.”

  
  


**Incoming text from: Pete, 12:36pm** **  
** **How’s your aim?**

 

Steve saw the notification on his lock screen and swiped the cell phone from the countertop. Clint had teased him mercilessly about turning off text previews, but still refused to show Steve how to do it.  _ At least I know what’s coming,  _ Steve thought sourly as he made a mental note to ask Natasha about that setting. Reading over the text again, he fired back a response.  **I’m no sniper, but I get by. How’s your hangover?**

 

Tucking the phone into the pocket of his jeans, he went back to assembling a sandwich. It vibrated again moments later, and Steve resigned to leaving it on the counter once more. 

 

**Incoming text from: Pete, 12:39pm**

**Nothing black coffee won’t fix. Got a range you like?**

 

Steve had to hand it to the guy for making an effort. Pete didn’t strike Steve as the type that met up with friends (or whatever they were calling themselves after yesterday’s drink-a-thon) on a Sunday afternoon just to pass the time. Maybe Sam and Curtis really had something with this “buddy system” they’d dreamt up. Then again, maybe there was more to Pete than he let on. Steve’s mind drifted back to the stark difference in mannerisms at the coffee shop and the bar, absently spreading mayonnaise on his bread as he considered the cause. 

 

As for a range he liked… “It’s a little of the way,” Steve declared theatrically to his empty kitchen, “and by a little I mean several hours upstate. By the way, there may or may not be Avengers using it. Me? Oh, I’m one of those too.” 

 

Slapping the bread on top of the sandwich with more force than necessary, Steve palmed his phone and considered how to respond. The day before had felt easy—this scenario felt like it needed calculation. The longer Steve held back from telling Pete the truth, the more likely it seemed that the other man wouldn’t trust him. But how much was  _ too  _ much? How much was enough? With a sigh of frustration, Steve tapped out a response. 

 

**Mine’s out of town. You have a favorite haunt?**

 

Cramming lunch into his mouth in record time, Steve left his phone on the counter while he looked for something to wear. Maybe the least he could do for Pete—even if it felt like a monumental effort—was tell the other man his name. Shedding lounge pants in favor of blue jeans and trading a pullover sweatshirt for a plain grey long sleeve t-shirt, Steve didn’t bother looking for sunglasses or a hat this time. Maybe Pete would pick somewhere where no one would bother them. Or maybe he would get stopped every six feet for a selfie. Regardless, Steve was committed now, already striding back into the kitchen to retrieve his phone once more.  

 

**Incoming text from: Pete, 1:14pm**

**Small place called Tyson’s. Only a few lanes but they’re never busy. Like the quiet. Meet you there at 2?**

**  
** Steve couldn’t help but wonder if it was a by-product of military service, the tendency to avoid being surrounded. He couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete seemed to favor lowbrow establishments. Steve knew enough about the internet to use Google Maps, finding that Tyson’s Guns & Range was only ten minutes away. 

 

**See you there.**

 

**Incoming text from: Pete, 1:16pm**

**I’ll bring the guns.**

  
  


Pete arrived with an arsenal in tow. 

 

Maybe that wasn’t entirely fair—Steve strongly suspected that the black duffle bag full of guns that lay on the floor between them wasn’t the entirety of the Pete’s stock. Still, there had to have been a dozen of them to choose from, complete with boxes of ammunition to spare. There was a notable lack of rifles, but given that the range was little more than a reinforced concrete box divided into lanes, that was the least surprising thing about the situation. 

 

“Two hundred rounds or so for each,” Pete said casually, picking up a .45 caliber and testing the weight in his hand. “Take your pick.”

 

Steve took his time, considering each weapon with care while he watched Pete load the extended clip. Clad in a black t-shirt, dark jeans, and boots, Steve had a better impression of the other man’s physique than he had the day before. As it turned out, the bulky coat had obscured a lot. Pete’s voice interrupted Steve thoughts. 

 

“Up for a wager?” 

 

Steve palmed a 9mm and straightened up, careful to sidestep the bag as he did. “What kind of wager?”

 

Pete gestured to where the targets hung at the end of the lane. “Accuracy. Pistols only. I win, you tell me something about yourself that no one else knows.” 

 

Chewing the inside of his cheek, Steve considered Pete’s words. “Already told you, I’m no sniper.”

 

The other man shot him a lopsided smirk. “Good thing these aren’t rifles, right?” He let out a trill of laughter when Steve rolled his eyes in response. “I’ll even up the ante for you, Steven. You win, I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing since I got back stateside.” Pete shifted his weight from foot to foot. “Have a feeling I might live to regret that offer.”

 

Steve busied himself with loading the clip of his borrowed pistol. “You made the stakes,” he pointed out lightly as he turned over the weight of Pete’s words in his head. “Never know what you’ll live to regret until it’s over.” Cocking the gun, he tilted his head toward the lanes. “Left or right?”

 

“Left.” Pete pulled on a pair of earmuffs and handed another to Steve. “Rapid fire when the buzzer goes off.” 

 

Steve couldn’t be sure if it was for practicality’s sake or a means of ending the conversation before it could progress. So far, when it came to Pete, Steve wasn’t sure of anything. He mirrored the act of putting on the protective earmuffs and positioned himself in the right lane. Rolling his shoulders, Steve tried to remember everything Bucky had ever taught him about aiming. At the sound of the buzzer, Steve exhaled in tandem with a squeeze of the trigger, hoping like hell to meet his mark. 

  
  


By the time the two men had unloaded a clip each into their respective targets, Steve could feel the beads of sweat running down his temples. Pete’s wager made him nervous. It wasn’t about the possibility of having to share something—that much Steve could live with—but about the possibility to catch more than a hollow glimpse of who Pete was. That bait dangled in front of Steve’s face, just out of reach, as they hunkered over their target sheets to tally up the scores. 

 

With fifteen bullets each, it was going to come down to mere millimeters. Steve studied the circles, each bearing a number between five and ten, and began tallying where his shots had fallen. Three had clustered together in the ten ring, earning him thirty points, and two landed in the outermost five ring, but the rest weren’t so easy to keep track of. An eight here, a six there—Steve tried to maintain his poker face as he counted. There was a chance for 150 points, if you were a hell of a shot. Steve had come away with 114, which was at least 30 more than he’d anticipated, if he were honest with himself. He took a picture of the target, sending it to Clint with no context, and wondered how his marks would measure up in the eyes of the master archer. 

  
“What’s your score there, Steven?” Pete asked as he peered over Steve’s shoulder. 

 

Steve tapped the bottom of the sheet, circling his overall score. “114 out of 150. Told you I was no sniper, Pete.”

 

Pete groaned, slapping his hand over his own sheet. “And yet you beat me anyway.” 

 

Steve tugged at the paper pinned under Pete’s fingers. “I refuse to believe that I beat anyone in a shootout. Prove it.”

 

Pete sighed, withdrawing his fingers just enough to reveal his own score: 112. Steve studied the difference between their sheets, seeing that one of Pete’s shots had fallen just a hair out of the 10 into the 9, and another was dead-on the line between 9 and 8.

 

“If I’m gonna hold up my end of the bargain,” Pete declared solemnly, “I’m not doing it sober.”

 

Steve ejected his clip from the 9mm, tucking it safely back into the duffle bag where he had found it. “Get the impression this is a private matter?”

 

Pete nodded, stowing his own weapon and hauling the duffle bag over his shoulder. “But I owe it to you. You won, fair and square.” 

 

It would have been easy to leave it at that. Steve didn’t owe Pete anything, at least, not on paper. But for him, it had never been about doing what was easy—it was about doing what was right. It didn’t feel right to go on lying to someone who was willing to lay down their secrets. 

 

“I may have gotten lucky enough to win with those shots,” Steve admitted, “but you won my respect.” He tipped his head toward the stairs they had descended to get to the range. “How would you feel about coming back to my place for drinks?” 

 

Pete shot Steve a measured look. “I think I could be on board with that. But only if you have whiskey.”

 

“Ah, well,” Steve shrugged lightly, “we might have a problem there. I think there’s only scotch.”

 

A laugh bubbled out of Pete as he clapped Steve on the shoulder and pulled him toward the stairwell. “I think I can work with that.”

  
  


Steve led the way on his bike, glancing back every so often to make sure Pete’s van hadn’t taken a wrong turn. He cut the engine in front of a broad, six-story brick apartment building that had probably been constructed in the early 1900s. What would have been labeled as ‘efficient’ in Steve’s day was now, he had learned, coveted as ‘charming.’ The rent was an astronomical number that he tried not to think about for too long. When Pete appeared, devoid of (visible) weapons, Steve led the way up four flights of stairs to his door. 

 

When he unlocked the door, Steve considered how the space might look to Pete. He wasn’t one for decorating—didn’t have the eye for all the modern complications at best, and didn’t want to settle down anywhere at worst. It left his apartment sparsely furnished. There was a mismatched couch and armchair situated around the coffee table in the entryway/living room/what-have-you space, a TV hanging on one wall (that rarely saw any use), a bookcase wedged between the windows that overlooked the street, and a pair of barstools neatly tucked under the butcher-block counter that divided the space. The kitchen was cramped, the wood floors original but in need of refinishing, and the exposed brick along one wall reminded whoever was looking of the building’s age. 

 

“It isn’t much,” Steve noted solemnly as he tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, stepping aside to let Pete pass, “but I’m not here all the time.”

 

“Live alone?” Pete asked quietly as he glanced around the room before settling into the one of the barstools. 

 

Steve busied himself with gathering glasses from the cupboard. “Just me and the houseplants.” 

 

Pete twisted around, looking for signs of foliage that he might have missed with a confused look.    
  
Steve couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “I don’t know that I could keep a plant alive for longer than a week.” He pulled a bottle of scotch out of the freezer, something Tony had left at one time or another, and a frost-covered flask. “Can’t share this one,” Steve said to Pete as he tapped the flask. “Scotch is all yours.”

 

“Not even gonna tell me what you’re hiding in there?” Pete chided as he poured scotch nearly to the brim of his glass. 

 

“An import,” Steve said evasively. 

 

Pete snorted without further comment. He picked up the glass and maneuvered to the couch, sinking into the plush cushions in a way that made Steve almost unsettled. Pete looked like someone who was carrying weight around with him, and Steve had a feeling all that was heavy about him was about to be spread across his living room floor. Instead of prying, Steve settled in beside Pete on the couch, careful to leave space between them. 

 

“I think I should tell you something,” Steve declared as he poured a sweet-smelling liquid from the flask into his own glass before setting it on the coffee table. “I know Sam had the best of intentions, but you should know that my name—”

 

“—is Steve Rogers?” Pete interrupted. He took a sip of his scotch, hissing at the flavor. “Fuck, that’s good.”

 

Steve blinked, mouth still half-open from the words he didn’t get out. “You knew?”

 

“Everyone who’s owned a TV in the last few years would be a fuckin’ moron not to recognize you.” Pete set his glass on the table and leaned forward to rest his elbows against his knees, fingers knotted together under his chin. “I look like an idiot to you?”

 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Steve challenged.

 

“Was respectin’ your right to privacy. You told me most of the truth. So what if you skipped the whole Captain America spiel?” Pete sighed. “Everyone has secrets.”

 

Taking a hearty swig of the asgardian mead in his glass for courage, Steve straightened up, leaning forward until he was all but invading Pete’s personal space. “I don’t decorate because of that.” He waved at the empty walls. “Put up pictures, I compromise other people’s safety. I could figure out art pieces, sure, but… This doesn’t feel like home.” He let the words sink into the space between them before going on. “You wanted to know something about me that no one else does. Everyone knows I’m Captain America, according to you.”

 

Pete met Steve’s eyes. “I lost, not you. You don’t have to tell me a goddamn thing.”

 

Steve could already feel his face flushing, courtesy of the otherworldly alcohol being too much for even his super soldier serum to metabolize out fast enough to keep him from getting tipsy. “I’m a gentleman who’s been keeping secrets from you. Well-intended or not, I’m gonna make it up to you, Pete.” He held the other man’s gaze, noticing for the first time that Pete’s eyes were brown. “You remember how I told you that someone important to me didn’t come back from the war?”

 

At Steve’s words, Pete nodded slowly. “Starting to suspect that might have been Bucky Barnes.”

 

Blowing out a harsh breath at the sound of Bucky’s name, Steve nodded grimly. “It was. But that isn’t the secret.” He dropped his gaze to the floor, focusing on one spot in particular where the varnish was chipping badly. “He wasn’t just important to me because of what they’ll tell you at the Smithsonian. Best friends doesn’t begin to cover it. Bucky was… He was everything to me. The only person I’ve ever loved. Ever been with.” Steve rubbed at the back of his neck, unable to look at Pete’s face. “No one knows about me and him— at least, no one who’s still alive. Wasn’t the same then as it is now.” He ran a hand over his face. “We had to hide. Seems easier, still, to hide it.” It was impossible for Steve to quell the shaking in his hands as he reached for his glass once more. “Probably sounds like no big deal. Hell, maybe it sounds unbelievable— America’s icon, as Tony can’t stop reminding me, being less than perfect.” 

 

Pete hadn’t so much as moved during Steve’s confession. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the vicinity of Steve’s shoulder, as if he were daring the other man to lift his head up once more so that he could pin him with that intense gaze. Steve could feel the heat of it, all but burning a hole in his skin— or maybe that was just his own fears blooming just beneath the surface. Steve forced himself to turn, catching Pete’s stare once more, and met it with an expectant look of his own. 

 

“If you’re going to live in this century, you’ve gotta learn how to play by a new set of rules.” Pete crossed one leg over the other, leaning back into the couch with his drink still in hand. “There may still be homophobic fucks running around, but I’m not one of them. Hell, most people aren’t these days. Who you bury your dick in is your business.” Although Steve let out a choked gasp at the brash phrasing, Pete just waved his hand lazily, nearly sloshing scotch onto the couch cushions. 

 

“Certainly seems easier to, as you so tactfully put it, ‘bury your dick’ in a girl. Time period hasn’t changed that.” Steve turned his attention to nursing his mead. 

 

“You ever been with one?” Pete asked casually. “Women are a whole heap of trouble. Dunno that I’d call that easier.”

 

Steve swished the honey-sweet liquid between his teeth before he swallowed loudly. “Almost, once upon a time. ‘Course, at the time I thought Bucky was… Anyway. It never happened.” He twisted to face Pete, raising an eyebrow as though issuing a challenge. “You ever been with a fella?”

 

To his credit, Pete didn’t flinch away. He merely shrugged. “Haven’t been with anyone since my wife died. She was my first. That answer your question?” 

 

There seemed to be something buried within Pete’s words, but Steve was already too far gone to unpack it. Instead, he swirled his glass in silence. 

 

Sighing loudly, Pete tipped back the remainder of his glass. “I didn’t forget about my end of the bargain, don’t you worry. But I’m gonna need more of that,” he pointed at the scotch bottle on the counter before hauling himself off of the couch to meander toward it, “if we’re going to talk about me and my shit.”

 

Steve watched the way Pete moved around his apartment. There was no hesitation, no lingering awkwardness. He looked more at peace in this space than Steve ever felt, which was a paradox in itself. The man seemed most at ease in the places where other people didn’t fit. 

 

No matter what secrets they spilled tonight, nor how much liquor they poured, they remained little more than two strangers navigating the rough waters that came with getting to know each other.  _ Right?  _ He still knew little-to-nothing about who Pete was. Yet, the more time Steve spent with Pete, the less sure he felt about seeing him as a stranger. 

 

Pete didn’t settle back onto the couch. Instead, drink in hand, he paced the short length of the living room floor. “Everyone knows about Captain America,” he started, not looking at Steve for the first time that evening, “but what do you know about The Punisher?”

 

Steve’s head felt heavy—whether that was from the alcohol or Pete’s words, he wasn’t entirely sure. Closing his eyes, Steve racked his brain, trying to remember where he knew that name. More than that, searching for a reason why hearing the words come out of Pete’s mouth made something in his blood run cold. “Not enough,” he managed to croak out, throwing an arm over his face.

 

“Not enough,” Pete repeated softly. “Don’t even know where to start. Suppose the easiest place is with his name.” 

 

Steve felt the couch give next to him. He turned, sitting up enough to search Pete’s face and find the hesitation laid bare there. Steve didn’t dare to speak.

 

“The Punisher wasn’t always a bad guy,” Pete offered in a low voice. “Hell, I wouldn’t even call him that. Vigilante, maybe. But he was someone, before... “ Letting out a long breath, he looked at the ceiling, away from Steve’s intent stare. “Before everything, Frank Castle was just a man with a wife and two kids, doing his job.” 

 

At that, Steve’s blood ran cold. Frank Castle was a name he had read about in a SHIELD file (before the fallout with SHIELD happened). He killed people, and that put him on the radar. 

 

Pete stole a glance at Steve’s face. “Starting to get the picture, Rogers?” The words came out at just shy of a whisper. He knocked back the remainder of his whiskey, toying with the empty glass. “My name’s Frank Castle. Some people call me a monster.”

 

The silence that hung between them was choking Steve. Suddenly the room felt too small, the truth felt too big, and any words he had felt too inferior to spar with Pete...Frank. He ran both hands through his hair, looking everywhere but at the man sitting so close that Steve could smell the scotch on his breath. “SHIELD knew about you,” he wearily admitted.

 

“SHIELD answered to the government, right?” Frank acknowledged. “I’ve been pissin’ off someone in the government ever since I set foot back on American soil. Somethin’ they probably left out…” At this, he leaned closer, invading Steve’s personal space for the first time. “...is that I only started killing people after my family was slaughtered. My best friend wasn’t like yours.” Frank was enough to breath the next words in Steve’s ear. “He could have stopped it. Could have saved them. Could have saved me.” 

 

Frank’s words were sobering. Steve pushed away from him, off of the couch, and stumbled toward the kitchen to pour what was left in the flask into his glass. His head was swimming with the knowledge that Frank Castle, once a wanted criminal, presumed dead, was sitting in his living room. 

 

“I was only supposed to kill the people that took Maria and the kids from me,” Frank went on from across the room, a faraway look in his eyes. “But the funny thing about hunting down people is that you find out just how many shades of grey the world really has.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve blurted out, putting his glass down on the counter in favor of bracing his hands against it. “You kill people.”

 

Frank inclined his head toward Steve. “Sure do. Mean to tell me you’ve never killed someone, Captain?”

 

Steve gripped the edge of the countertop. He could hear the wood splintering beneath his fingers. Frank was leaning across the countertop, leaning in close on his elbows, as though he had appeared out of nowhere. “I’m supposed to save people.”

 

“Sometimes saving more people means taking care of threats,” Frank bolstered.

 

Flashes of Hydra agents, weapons trained on his team, clouded Steve’s mind. One hit of the shield to their temple disabled them.  _ But at what cost?  _ “I don’t… I don’t know,” Steve said in a trembling voice. “I do what I have to do to—”

 

“—keep people safe?” Frank finished. “Now how does that make you and me so different?”

 

Steve’s mouth went dry. Put that way, the lines that clearly separated right from wrong were blurred. “Maybe it’s like you said,” Steve rasped, “the world isn’t so black and white.”

 

Frank rounded the corner of the island, stepping close enough to Steve to share the same air. “Might be the booze talkin’,” he rumbled, “but I think where good ends and bad begins isn’t the only thing I can’t get straight right now.”

 

“How’s that?” Steve asked, swallowing hard. He could feel Frank’s body heat and smell his aftershave (something citrus and spice). Could have reached out to touch him, too, if he’d wanted. 

 

Frank hooked a finger through one of Steve’s belt loops, clumsily tugging him closer. “Don’t know how this all works,” he confessed, running a thumb along the strip of skin above Steve’s waistband. “Dunno if you’re game, after losing your guy. I haven’t… Told you, not with anyone after Maria, let alone a guy.”

 

Steve couldn’t ignore the way his skin burned under Frank’s touch. Gathering his nerve, Steve grasped a fistful of Pete’s shirt, efficiently gaining the other man’s rapt attention. “I’m game if you are. But there’s some logistics.”

 

“Couch or bed?” Frank joked, fiddling with the button of Steve’s jeans. 

 

“Top or bottom,” Steve corrected.

 

The fiddling stopped as Frank’s face stilled in concentration, studying Steve with a voracious intensity. “Top,” he muttered, moving his hand to grip Steve’s wrist. “That gonna be a deal breaker?”   
  


With a shake of his head, Steve pulled Frank in close enough to mouth at the slope of his jaw. “Just means you gotta do some work,” he breathed against Frank’s skin. “Think you can handle that?”

 

Frank took hold of Steve’s chin, tilting it upward until they were nearly eye-to-eye with their close height. “I’d be more worried about if you can handle me,” he declared before covering Steve’s mouth with his own. 

 

Every swirling thought in Steve’s mind silenced as Frank sought to possess him. If it wasn’t the slip of tongue that made his knees buckle, then it was surely the way Frank drug his teeth  _ just so  _ along Steve’s lip. He found his back pressed against the edge of the island, one of Frank’s arms hooked around his waist to press them closer together, and the other hand gripping Steve’s neck and jaw to pin him in place. Even though Steve knew he wasn’t entirely powerless—although he would have placed bets that Frank would give him a run for his money in a brawl—there was something deeply erotic about submitting to someone else’s will. 

 

One hand still braced against the edge of the counter, Steve slid the other up Frank’s arm, revelling in the opportunity to explore the landscape. As his fingers tightened over tense muscle, Frank let out a groan against Steve’s mouth. He pulled away long enough to yank the shirt over his head, eyes burning as he met Steve’s hungry gaze. 

 

“More,” Frank barely rasped out, running his own hands up Steve’s arms. “Show me what you like.”

 

Steve didn’t need to be told twice. 

 

He took in the scars that dotted Frank’s torso, smoothing his fingers over each one as he explored the expanse of bare skin. He delighted in the sharp hiss Frank let out when his fingers grazed over a nipple, pausing to palm it before bending to replace his hand with tongue. Frank’s fingers laced in Steve’s hair at that, gripping in surprise as his back arched toward Steve’s mouth. Repeating the same treatment on the other side, Steve let his other hand slip to Frank’s jeans, fumbling to free the button before Frank swatted him away and did it himself. 

 

It was then that Steve kneeled, hands shaking at Frank’s waist. “You gotta be sure,” Steve inisted. “We can blame everything else on the drinks, but not this.”

 

Frank threaded his fingers into Steve’s hair once more, tugging Steve’s head back to meet his gaze. “I don’t start things I won’t finish.” He didn’t loosen his grip, but instead sought one of Steve’s hands, pressing it against the strain in his jeans. “Think I don’t know what I’m doin’ here?”

 

Steve’s fingers flexed under Frank’s, not quite able to get a grip through the heavy weight of the denim, but eliciting a groan all the same. Pulling away just enough to grab hold of Frank’s remaining clothes, Steve tugged, watching as the fabric slipped to Frank’s knees to display a waiting cock. 

 

“Tell me,” Steve breathed, mere inches from Frank’s skin. “Tell me what you want.”

 

Frank released his grip on Steve’s hair in favor of stroking his fingers down the side of Steve’s face. He paused at Steve’s mouth, meeting the other man’s gaze with ferocious intensity before running his thumb along Steve’s lips. “I want you to wrap your lips around me,” he murmured, slipping the thumb into Steve’s now-slack mouth. “Want you to take me deep,” Frank punctuated the sentiment by sliding all the way into the back of Steve’s mouth. “Then,” Frank purred as he pulled his hand away from Steve’s mouth in order to guide him instead to the head of his cock, “I’m going to fuck you into oblivion.”

 

That was all the encouragement Steve needed to take Frank into his mouth, inch by inch, delighting in the throaty gasps of pleasure he was eliciting. Steve could hear Frank’s dog tags clinking together as he shifted onto the heels of his feet, rolling his hips forward just enough to make Steve take all of him. Steve hummed in pleasure, exploring the veins that wound their way around Frank’s cock with his tongue while Frank groaned above him. Gripping Frank’s hips for leverage, Steve pulled him in closer as he worked at the length. 

 

Frank pawed at Steve’s shoulders, tugging at the shirt that still clung there. “You’re overdressed,” he barely got out as Steve pulled away long enough to look up at him with those haunting blue eyes. “Why’re you the only one who gets a view, Rogers?”

 

Steve couldn’t hold back a smirk as he drew the shirt over his head, being just slow enough to elicit a growl of annoyance from Frank. No sooner had he let the shirt fall to the floor then Frank was wrapping an arm around Steve’s torso, pulling him up into a standing position so that he could nip at the previously concealed skin. Steve let his head fall against Frank’s shoulder as he moaned, lost in the sensation of Frank’s throbbing cock pinned between them and the teeth in his shoulder. “Harder,” he begged Frank. 

 

“Not the only time you’ll be sayin’ that,” Frank proclaimed wickedly before sinking his teeth into Steve’s skin. At the way Steve moaned, Frank gave an experimental suck, and was met with fingers gripping his bicep and a gasp against his skin. “More?”

 

“God, yes,” Steve begged as he ground his hips against Frank. 

 

Frank pressed his lips to Steve’s ear. “How much more?”

 

Steve reached between them to take hold of Frank’s length. “All of it,” he asserted. 

 

“You got any…” Frank trailed off, at a loss for words. All that was new about this, and them, was wrapped up in what he left unspoken. 

 

Steve nodded. “Bedroom.” He glanced at Frank’s pants, still bunched around his knees, and the boots still on his feet. “If you can make it, I’ll... I’ll meet you there.” 

 

Frank stood rooted in place, stunned by the flirtation in Steve’s tone, and watched as the other man trailed his fingers across a door frame in the corner before throwing a wink over his shoulder.  _ If you can make it,  _ Frank cursed in his head as he rushed to unlace his boots. He kicked them haphazardly across the room, paying no mind to where they landed, and shed his clothes in a pile where he still stood. It was then, clad in only his dog tags, that he strode into the room he’d watched Steve enter, only to find it empty. “Steve?” Frank called out tentatively. 

 

“Right here,” Steve said from behind Frank, watching with a bemused expression as he spun around. 

 

Steve was naked, leaning against another door that Frank assumed led to a master bathroom. When Steve didn’t make a move toward him, Frank realized what he was doing—gifting him this opportunity to look. He stood in the only patch of light, pooling in from the city outside the window, and Frank could see that Steve’s skin wasn’t marred by scars like his. Lean, cut by muscle, and smooth to the eye. He could have been sculpted out of marble. 

 

“They made me,” Steve sighed quietly, looking away from Frank. “The perfect soldier. Just because the scars don’t show up on my skin… Doesn’t mean I don’t carry them.” 

 

Something about the crack in Steve’s voice made Frank take a step closer, wrapping him in a hug that felt more intimate than any touch they’d exchanged all night. Steve stiffened under the touch at first, before slipping his arms around Frank’s back and leaning into the embrace. 

 

“We’re what we make ourselves,” Frank said firmly. “The choices we make. That’s the only thing that gets to define us.” 

 

It was then that Steve pulled him to the bed, stumbling a bit in the darkness. “This is my choice,” he affirmed. Before Frank could argue, he held up a hand. “You can back out, but I won’t.”

 

Frank pressed a hand between Steve’s shoulder blades, watching as he fell onto the bed. “I promised to fuck you into oblivion,” he chuckled. “Now what kind of guy would I be to back out of a promise like that when you look like this?” The truth in his words surprised Frank more than anything else. He absently stroked his cock, still half-hard from their antics in the kitchen, as he looked at the curvature of Steve’s ass. “Who knew you’d look like that.”

 

Steve stretched just far enough to reach the condoms and lube that were tucked in the drawer of his nightstand. “You never know,” he defended himself before Frank could ask. “Sure as hell didn’t plan on this.”

 

Frank answered with a snort of agreement. Running a hand down Steve’s back, he paused, unsure of what to do from here. “You’re gonna need to give me a walkthrough,” he admitted. 

 

“If I were anyone else, maybe,” Steve wagered. “Supersoldier serum. You can’t really hurt me.”

 

“So you just… Lube up and…” Frank stammered, unsure of himself for the first time. 

 

“I don’t imagine the procedure is that different,” Steve said dryly.

 

A strangled laugh escaped Frank’s throat. “Suppose not.” 

 

Steve scooted closer, throwing a look over his shoulder at Frank. “It’s okay,” he assured. 

 

Frank blew out a breath before taking the condom from Steve’s hand and tearing it open. He rolled it over himself, trying to ignore the way his fingers shook, and reached for the bottle of lube that lay on the bed next to Steve. Applying a liberal amount to his fingers, Frank smoothed it over the condom before glancing at Steve. “Like this?”

 

“Just like that,” Steve confirmed. 

 

Reaching for Steve’s hips, Frank tugged him closer, trying to control his breathing. “Last chance to change your mind,” he warned. 

 

“Haven’t wanted to change my mind since you first kissed me,” Steve said sincerely, rolling his hips back to grind against Frank’s now-slick cock. “You talk a big game. Stop talking and show me.”

 

With a growl, Frank pressed forward, stretching Steve open beneath him. He was acutely aware of the way Steve was squirming, as if he was trying to take Frank deeper. Hell, Frank was aware of everything—of the tightness he hadn’t expected, the throaty moans that were spilling out of Steve’s lips already, and the way he already wanted to pick up the pace to bury himself deep inside of Steve’s warmth. “Jesus Christ,” Frank groaned as he sunk hip-deep into Steve, gripping tight enough to leave bruises. “Steve, Steve, Steve.”

 

“Don’t be slow,” Steve encouraged, pressing back harder against Frank. 

 

Frank leaned over, letting his tags brush against Steve’s spine and revelling in the way Steve involuntarily shivered in response, to slip his still-slick hand under Steve’s hips and grip his cock. “If you insist.” He picked up his pace, and intensity, as he stroked Steve’s cock in time with every thrust. 

 

Steve fisted the comforter, overwhelmed by the sensations that Frank was giving him. Every noise that escaped his mouth was something primal, rough and begging, as Frank thrust into him. “Fuck, Frank,” Steve cried. “I need—”

 

Frank was pressed flat against Steve’s back now, nibbling at his ear. “What do you need, hm?” he taunted. “Gotta tell me, or I might have to…” He trailed off as he stilled the motion of his hips. 

 

“No!” Steve cried harshly, thrashing under Frank, desperate to create friction. “I need to cum. Please, please, Frank,” Steve pleaded. 

 

Frank groped at the blanket for the lube before releasing Steve’s cock long enough to squeeze more into his hand. “Alright,” he whispered in Steve’s ear. “We’re gonna cum together. You wanna do that for me?”

  
“Y-yes,” Steve hissed as Frank’s tight grip returned, stroking up his length. “Fuck, yes, Frank.”

 

Frank straightened up, tugging Steve’s hips higher to get a better angle before he resumed the rhythm. With every thrust, he ran his thumb over the head of Steve’s cock, pushing him closer and closer to falling over the edge. It was taking every ounce of Frank’s self control to tease Steve like this, when all he wanted to do was ride him with abandon. “You ready?” Frank asked hoarsely, increasing his speed. “Cum for me, Steve.” 

 

Steve didn’t know who fell apart first— only that they ended in a myriad of shouts that resembled names, and fell into a pile of sweat-sticky limbs. It had been the last thing he’d expected. Frank’s confession, the emotional fallout that followed, and most of all the sex. But as he lay, still entangled in Frank, he didn’t regret it. Maybe it was what they both needed. Whatever came next could wait until the morning. 


End file.
